


Fallen Ashes (working title)

by ThatDudeInTheHat



Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventure, Developing Relationship, Dwarves, Elves, Epic, F/M, Future, Gen, Half-Elves, Magic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatDudeInTheHat/pseuds/ThatDudeInTheHat
Summary: Elves have been banned from the country and declared an enemy of the nation, they are killed on sight. as the elves die or leave so does the knowledge and practice of magic. Tech-bans are placed on every city to punish those who still housed "traitors".  A lone Hunter travels through the worlds of technology and magic. acceptance and hatred. fighting, searching for himself and his hope. what he finds is the person who teaches him to fight for who he loves again.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time using AO3 and I have no idea what I'm doing so bare with me
> 
> This is a work in progress and technically only a first draft. you may notice changes in style between chapter uploads as my writing improves and I will make changes after the fact as I further tweak the story.
> 
> (I don't know if I need to say this but while the main characters are pan/bi they are in a 'straight' relationship. saying this now if that's a deal-breaker for some people)
> 
> CRITICISM IS NOT ONLY APPRECIATED BUT ALSO WANTED

**Fallen Ashes**

**Prologue**

There are many tales of brave Hunters and their epics. Be it a small guild saving an entire city from a siege of monstrous wraiths or a lone Hunter casting back a shadow of terror, the mere sight of them brings a calming sense of safety to this very day. The tradition is as old as the people of Nimera. All Nim can recite the poems, songs, and plays of those first quests against the wraiths. The dauntless fight in the endless war that costs so many Hunters their lives but noblely saves just as many. Even an elf who's mastered the magics of the universe stands nary a chance against those ancient enemies of the Nim. The hardiest of dwarves dares not face them, lest they risk losing the fields with their lives. Indeed, even the most stubborn of stubborn humans leaves the wraiths to the Hunters for what can a man do? What could any of the Nim do? Nothing. No Nim could ever stand against those shadows, for Hunters, despite sharing the flesh and blood of the races of Nim, do not seem of us. For what race on Nimera could possibly produce that might and bravery? Even then there are Hunters that stand above the rest. Vibrant suns of peace amongst that ocean of light. Hunters that will be remembered not just for what they did but who they were. Where even the meekest of Hunters come from is a mystery to many as they appear from seemingly nothing, nowhere and anywhere or anyone

  
  


even

  
  
  


**Chapter 1 The Man In A Bar**

A rustic tavern sits on the edge of a slowly developing town. The inside of the spruce structure is full of boisterous chatter. A lone man sits at the counter with the barkeep, prattling on about recent events.

"Did you hear ‘bout Koara?" The man asks, shrill.

"No, what happened?" Replies the barkeep, washing a pint.

"They’ve been housing Blue Bloods in secret."

"Filthy things." The barkeep spits. “What did the national guard do?”

"Purged the capital."

"Did The Champions get involved?" The barkeep places down the pint and leans forward.

"They burned the place to the ground. Nothing but scaffolding." The man sips on his brew.

"Good. The friends of those damn things were dealt with too then." The barkeep grins widely.

The man coughs and leans back. "Don’t understand why some capitals are burnt to the ground an’ others get bans."

"Doesn’t matter. I’m just happy t’be alive. Though those damn wraiths are making business hard." The barkeep scratches his belly and turns to pour a customer a glass. “Can’t get the wheat I need to run my stills.”

“At least you make enough money to trade it in from the Citadel. I’m dead in the water right now without my farm,” The man says morbidly.

“You could ask the guard,”

“I don’t really trust ‘em. The only thing they have t’do is keep the bans going.” He looks down and sighs heavily. “Why does trade between the capitals have to cost so many Epiciums?”

“Have you tried anything else?”

“I asked a man claiming to be a Hunter.”

“A Hunter this far west?” The barkeep’s eyebrows rise. 

“No guild signs and had no sword on his back, but he said he only accepts payment after completion-”

“That doesn’t sound like most Hunters I’ve heard of,” The barkeep interrupts.

“Doesn’t matter if he’s a Hunter or not, I don’t have to pay him yet. He could’ve walked away for all I care. Changed nothing at the time cause it was just going to be a few Questums, but now, that’s a whole lot more than I can lose.” He sips at a drink. “Though I doubt he’s alive even if he did try. Boy looked too scrawny to take on that many wraiths and live-"

The door to the tavern is kicked open with a loud bang. A young man walks in, his harsh breathing clouding in the early morning air. The few people sitting inside turn to stare. He walks over to the barkeep, his footsteps echoing in the now silent building as everyone watches his slouched figure carry a lifeless wraith towards the back of the tavern. The horrifying insect-like beast has a body of thick carapace, and four bouncing crab-like legs that end in serrations. Between two lifeless eyes, its beaked face drips purple blood onto the floorboards. 

Once the stranger gets to the duo, with a tired thud, he tosses the wraith onto the table. He stretches as his back finally rests. No longer burdened with the corpse’s weight, he straightens to a frightening height, bright orange hair like fire atop a lighthouse. His face is lean and well defined, but not sharp. Bushy eyebrows top glistening blue eyes that are punctuated by a small sharp nose. A dusting of freckles lies on his face along with some light stubble. His body is lanky and well toned though he does not look unfamiliar with hard work, he does not seem capable of the feat laid in front of him. The rest of his appearance would be rather unremarkable; an off-white cotton tunic and brown wool pants, were it not for the purple wraith blood staining all his clothes, his leather gloves gleaming almost black from fresh blood in the lamplight.

"Job’s done. I think the smell and the corpse are plenty proof," says the hunter, each sound rolling out clear from his thick accented voice, coated with fatigue. He speaks with a light gruff voice, though it isn’t harsh. Each word is careful and has a care behind their choice. There’s a bland sorrow behind it, but it’s too faint to be noticed.

"Y-you actually did it! H-heres your Questums. I can't thank you enough," says the man, still shocked at the sight before him. He tosses the Hunter a large sack of coins, making a heavy clatter against each other as he puts them in his bag.

“So you're claiming’ t’be a Hunter?”

“Yeah.” The Hunter replies, disinterested.

“You don’t look it.” The barkeep remarks.

“You don’t look like a Hunter either.” He stifles a laugh.

“But I ain’t claiming to be one.”

“And?” The Hunter finishes as he takes his reward.

"How'd you pull it off, if you don't mind me asking?" asks the barkeep, glaring intensely at the Hunter.

"How do you make your beer? Skill and determination," says the Hunter as he walks away, finishing the conversation.

He nears the door, chill air leaking through the wood, when he overhears his former employer say to the barkeep: "I guess that was an acceptable sum to get my farm back, but how will I get through the season now?"

The Hunter pauses in the doorway and pulls out a Questum from the sack, the silver coin shining in the candlelight. His stomach grumbles in grim reminder of what he needs it for. He rubs it between his fingers and then sighs, putting it back with the rest. Turning around, he returns to the table. 

"I can't take this," he says, tossing the coin bag down with a clack.

"It’s all I have!" The man retorts. 

"I’m not asking for more." the Hunter pauses, contemplating over what would be apt compensation. "A day of rations, a refill of my water and an ale will do instead," 

"That’s all?” the man asks, his face softly awed. “I… It's a deal then, th-thank you… truly, thank you."

With the bag ‘round his shoulder full of his new supplies the Hunter walks off to find his next contract, his stomach grumbling in lean protest. 

The hungered Hunter lumbers over to the edge of town, body now warm from the ale. He looks around from his spot, taking in the capital of Croy. It’s a small place packed full of thousands of people nestled nicely against the edge of some woods, the trees casting tall morning shadows over the buildings. The effect of the tech bans are readily apparent, the cubist modern style of the old crumbling houses no longer able to be repaired. All the new buildings are simple, made of hewn stone, cut trees, with some even having thatch roofs though still attempting to hold the ‘modern trend _’_.

He watches a small patrol of guards, armed with white rifles glowing with blue light. The guards are clad in titanium alloy armour, styled like the platemail of valiant knights of old. The Hunter presses against a nearby wall, breathing softly till they pass.

_They came around faster than I thought they would._ The Hunter takes note as he continues his walk. The streets around him are mostly empty, most people either just waking up or having a drink right before they start work. Cold air whips through the town and the Hunter pulls on his half cloak in retaliation of its bite. He scratches the orange scruff on his chin, debating on what to do next. _Need to find some work. Don't want to end up sleeping in a bush again_.

“Hey!” Shouts a short man, looking very much like a bear cub in clothing. "You look hungry." His accent is foreign but clear.

The Hunter tilts his head, his attention caught. “I am,”

The man approaches, giving him an inviting grin. "Name’s Richard, I saw what you did in the bar. Not many people who would do that, 'specially in your case"

"I refuse to impede other people," the Hunter grunts.

"Tis a mighty noble thing of you. I have a job for someone like you, if you’re willing." Richard smiles.

"Depends on the work."

"Tis a tasking one. I need someone to protect me and my caravan as I move onto the capital just west of here… uh… oh darn this brain, whats it called-"

"You mean Troak?"

"Ah yes Troak, that’s the name. That’s the job, accompany me to Troak as my caravan guard and I'll pay you, lodging included. Course t’is if you think you can?" 

"If you really did see what happened in the bar then you'll know I can handle myself," the Hunter grins slightly, stepping forward and looming over Richard. He looks down at him, all curls and teeth, and makes a decision.

"I have no reason to argue.” The Hunter shrugs. “I’ll do it.”

"Before we head off, what's your name?” He grins welcomingly.

“The Red Fox.” The Hunter informs.

“I’d like to know the _name_ of my new employee."

Deliberation grows on the Hunter’s face as he considers his next actions.

"Come now, there’s no reason to not tell. Lest of course you've got something to hide," Richard jokes, grinning. The Hunter looks back at him, still indecisive. Richard sighs.

"... Robin… The... Red Fox" Robin sighs.

"Red Fox eh… you must belong to The Pack then, explains your heavy sense of honour and Robin be a mighty fine name, though it sounds a mite familiar too.” Richard notes. “Good to do business with you. Now let's be off, I'll show you to my wagon, you’re gonna love my horses…” Richard trails off as he bounds ahead to lead the way.

After a brief moment of quiet thought, Robin marches forward to follow his new employer.

The pair cross over from the west to the east side of the town, Richard far ahead of Robin. The streets get more lively as the day progresses. The duo passes many people, all of whom stop for at least a moment to stare at Robin. Most people are dressed poorly. Some are wearing tattered old hoodies and jeans left from a bygone era. Others are wearing freshly made clothes, mostly roughspun sweat shirts and cotton trousers. Despite the moderately busy streets Robin remains easy to see, his tall figure poking above many who pass him. His messy bright orange hair catches beautifully in the sun and gleams like a wild flame. With him he brings the stench of wraiths, though the blood has now dried. 

As he crosses through town, Robin's nose is hit with a familiar sensation— a feeling of home.

_What's that smell…? Apple… Cinnamon?_

Taking in a big whiff of the fragrant aroma, Robin's mind fills with things he hasn't thought of for years. The drywall rooms of his house back in Ardwin, and how they were covered with books with confounding titles. Thoughts of his mother and her slender face framed with silky golden hair. How she always smiled and that she sang him to sleep with her warm voice. How she made pastries on the fourth day of every week. Robin remembers how energetic and lighthearted he was then, just like his mother… 

_What happened? Oh… that's right…_

"Robin, hello? Anybody home? You were mumbling ‘bout a smell." Richard says. "Whatever it was, it must of been something pretty nostalgic cause you look like you were scent somewhere interesting… get it? Scent? It's like- oh you get it." Richard jokes trying to get the stern Hunter to lighten up.

Wiping away a lone tear, Robin re-adjusts his equipment, bewildered that such a simple scent had resurfaced such memories. Perhaps he'd spent too long in those woods without food, he wonders. Not to get lost in his own thoughts again, Robin helps Richard pack his supplies onto his wagon.


	2. Off to Troak

It takes some time but the duo is soon prepared to set off. Richard hops onto the front of his small full cart and signals for his horses Clair and Bran to start. Robin follows closely on the left of Bran, surveying the land as they go.  
The old wheels on the wagon squeak and clack as the capital, Croy, shrinks from view. As they continue, the rolling plains before them become further and further degraded, the dark green grass growing more and more emerald in colour. The sapphire sky carries the beating yellow sun over their heads. The trek forwards brings a thin cloud of dust kicked up by the cart and hooves. Occasionally they hit a patch of asphalt that bumps the cart but they become increasingly rare.  
“It’s good to get out every now and then.” Richard grins. “Course you probably get out plenty, being a Hunter an’ all.” He says, his head tilted to Robin.  
Robin stares out into the vast green plains, remaining silent.  
“Focused on the job eh? I like the effort.” Richard laughs, giving Robin a hearty thumbs up.  
They keep moving west, only stopping once to set up camp for the night, before continuing again in the morning.  
“From here the path should split. We follow the northwestern one, we’ll get there faster, but... it’s been crawling with aggressive beggars for a few weeks. The west most path is safer but rougher and a whole day longer.” Robin instructs as he helps roll up Richard's bedroll, his stomach feels heavy due to the emptiness.  
“Let’s take the north road. I trust you t’scare any raiders off if they get to close.” Richard booms.  
“All right let’s head off.” Robin stands and adjusts his gear.  
“Not gonna eat?” Richard asks.  
“Rationing,” Robin replies.  
“Then let’s head off.” Richard beams as he hops back onto his wagon.  
Robin and Richard continue their way to Troak, turning down the north path when they reach the fork in the road. The first couple hours are calm. A waning winter wind blows by, rustling Robin’s hair.  
Patches of tall yellow grass rustle to the north of the path.  
That didn’t sound large enough to be a pack of wraiths. Could be wrong but I think… we’ve got bandits. Robin stares into the green field, rolling hills dotting the land.  
Richard darts a glance at Robin before following his gaze. “Something the bother, Robin?” Richard asks.  
“What do you think?” Robin quips, gesturing to the bush of suspicion.  
“So how are you going to do this?” Richard inquires.  
“Safely. Now just keeping going.” Robin instructs with a wave.  
The wagon continues on, Robin following slowly, focused on the fields.  
Only a minute later, a small band of roughly garbed ruffians bound out of their hiding and towards Richard's wagon.  
The bandits run at them flailing weapons of assorted quality and advancement. One of them fires a warning shot from a shoddily made five round revolver.  
“Richard, keep the wagon close.” Robin directs.  
“Should I help-”  
“Just keep the wagon far from them and close to me.” Robin draws his short sword from his left side.  
“Hey!” Robin booms. “I am Robin The Red Fox. Stop this now and you won’t get hurt!”  
The bandits scream and yell, not slowing down at all.  
“That never works,” Robin mutters.  
Robin sheaths his sword and readies for a brawl. A bandit lunges at him with a knife. Robin redirects the blow into another bandit. He screams as his abdomen begins bleeding blue. Arrows fly at Robin as two of the bandits loosen their bows at him. Robin rolls behind the wagon. He waits a moment, then launches out and grabs some arrows lodged in the wagon and ground.  
This’ll confuse em. Robin thinks with confidence.  
Quickly, Robin throws the arrows wildly and randomly in the bandits’ general direction. Richard chuckles at the sight. Out of nowhere, the bandit with the gun runs up behind Robin and fires a bullet into his back as he rips a sack from Robin’s bag. Robin howls in pain as he grabs behind him and flips the bandit over his shoulder. He stamps his boot onto the bandit’s chest and pulls on his arm, dislocating it. Richard winces as the bandit wails deafeningly. The remaining two bandits look at each other and back at Robin before running back into the hills. Robin bends down to pick up his stolen sack.  
“Destroyed. Great.” Robin pouts as his stomach growls loudly.

**************

Squeaks and clacks fill the air as Richard's wagon drives on, the tiny caravaneer sitting in the front to steer. The sun is a few hours west of noon. Robin is walking slightly behind, tired.  
At least it’s cool, Robin thinks.  
He debates snacking on his rations but the trip to Troak is long and it's only the second evening, so he needs to ration his supply. His stomach growls weakly, signaling that it has been far too long since he ate.  
Richard turns his head round to see his hired guard half hunched over in exhaustion. "You look pretty hungry there Robin. Looks like you're moments away from eating Bran," he chuckles, shaking the hair on his face.  
Robin's stomach groans again as he replies. "When we started this trip, I had eaten for the first time in a week. I should have a day of rations, which has lasted me plenty before, but after yesterday, not only am I exhausted, I'm also practically out of food." He kicks a rock but it barely moves.  
"It was quite amusing to watch you fight off that band of crazed raiders. Entertaining to watch you find ways to not kill them," jokes Richard.  
"A life is a life. I won't take one." Robin says firmly.  
"Shoulda guessed you'd respond as such. I've said it once and I'll say it again, you are a pretty noble person… tell you what. We can make camp early. I'll let you use some of my supplies," Richard grins.  
"They’re not mine to use," Robin says, removing his sleeping pack from the wagon.  
"I insist you do. Want to spread more kindness is all. Anyways, if you die I won't have a guard," Richard shrugs.  
In tired, begrudging thankfulness, Robin goes through the wagon of supplies and pulls out some sourdough bread.  
"I'm eating this," declares the Hunter as he drops exhaustedly onto his sleeping pack. Sitting there, chewing on the bread, Robin feels some energy return to him. After enjoying the small morsel as much as he can, Robin rolls out a bed from the pack. He removes his bag from his shoulder and places it next to his unrolled bed. He unclips his sheathed short sword from his belt and leans it against his bag.  
"Been meaning to ask, why don’t you have a proper Hunter’s sword? " Richard asks.  
Robin stares into the night and replies dismissively, "Custom made scabbards are quite expensive. I would ‘prefer’ an arming sword which-.” He pauses. “I would have on my back. Both are expensive. Both I can't afford... No more guild to decorate it anyway.”  
Several moments of silence pass while the two fully set up camp before Richard remarks, "I've always wondered why Hunters wear their swords on their back. Seemed bizarre."  
"Can be more convenient to sheath, harder to have it stolen, better suited to a life of adventure and travel, and now it’s become a handy tradition to help Hunters be recognizable," answers Robin robotically.  
The two sit in silence after finishing setting up camp.  
The air is still and the world quiet as the two of them pass into sleep.

The still of the night is disturbed as a lone wraith lurks in the shadow, waiting to strike its prey, its lean panther-like figure hiding in the grass. It lurches forward slowly, as to not awaken its targets. Hiding in the shadows at the edge of the light of the fire, it makes its attack.  
Pouncing towards Richard, the panther-Esque wraith seems to glide through the air. It nearly lands on Richard, but as it swings near the end of its pounce, right before it even touches a single hair, Robin barrels into it with his shoulder, sheathed sword in hand. Shocked by the quick motion and loud noise of the tackle, Richard is woken up to see Robin standing in a wide, low stance, scabbard in his left hand, his arms at his side ready to move in a moment. Faster than Richard can see, the wraith launches at Robin to try for a bite. In one smooth motion, Robin draws his blade, catches the wraith's maw with his scabbard, and stabs downward through its neck, piercing its thick hide. Thick purple blood oozes from the puncture, coating the blade as the body drops to the floor. Just as silently as he got up, Robin slinks back to his bed pack to sleep. Richard stares at the shadowy beast that came so close to ending his life. After laying in startled silence for several minutes, Richard too falls asleep.

Robin wakes up to see that Richard has already packed up camp and been waiting for him.  
“You’re finally awake, eh?” Richard booms.  
“Did I keep you long?” Robin asks, stretching out of his wool bedroll.  
“Not much. Though I must say I was surprised to wake before you.” Richard shakes his belly with cheer.  
“Bullets to the back are pretty painful.” Robin groans.  
“I guess ya did earn a late morning.” Richard smiles. “Now let’s head off. Troak isn’t going to wait.” He leaps to his cart's reins and flails his stubby legs as he scrambles into place.  
“It should be another day or so from here,” Robin says as he chucks his bedroll onto the cart.  
“Even more reason to go.” Richard whips the reigns and Cliff and Bran speed to a canter as they head northwest.  
Empty hours pass by as the orange sun rises in the sky.  
“So where ya from?” Richard asks, finally breaking the silence.  
“West,” Robin remarks.  
“You’re from Ovain?”  
“Not quite that west, but sure.” Robin shrugs. “How about you?”  
“Ehhh. N-north. Yea, north.” Richard stumbles out.  
“So Western Vocain(Vo-sane)?” Robin pauses in his tracks. “You have my condolences.”  
“Oh, it’s fine, really. The situation here isn’t that much worse. Trade wise that is.” Richard scratches his beard thoughtfully.  
“Still. You went from a country prepping for a war to another on the verge of one.” Robin says sympathetically.  
“At least I got out before the border closed.” Richard smiles softly. “An’ anyways. My ol’ bro lives in a capital t’ the north.”  
“The world really is going to shit.” Robin sighs.  
“Oh come now. We aren’t that far gone. We still at least have the few like you.” Richard beams.  
“If you say so.” Robin dismisses.

**************

It had been several days of travel now, the duo tired from the trip. Troak and the neighboring woods had been visible on the horizon for the past hour and Robin knew they were hours away from their destination.  
"You ever been to Troak?" Richard inquires.  
"My parents told me about it when I was young. Said it was being rebuilt a while ago." Responds the Hunter, slowly trailing behind.  
This reminds me of my first trip out with Rogan. A gentle smile is brought to Robin’s lips. Soon flashes of tears, heartbreak, and loneliness flash through his mind.   
Right. Those had to end too. He thinks as the world begins to feel grey.  
Troak had been a small town, but it had quickly turned into a busy trading hub as it was situated in the middle of the small continent. The structures are tall and constructed of either granite or oak. In contrast to Croy, Troak has windows on the buildings, though they are cheaply made. It grows late out and the faltering, rusted street lights flicker as they illuminate the way.  
“No guards?” asks Robin.  
“No one with strong enough influence or money to set one up.”  
“What about the national guard? I thought King Sarah wanted to have a tight crackdown on trade.”  
“Don’t know what the King is thinking, but she did leave a drone squad as surveillance,” Richard explains as he points to a sky-blue drone zipping around above the town.  
“Explains all the weapons,” remarks Robin as he walks a little closer to the wagon, watching the people go by. All of them have at least one gun, bow or blade. He spots a merchant standing on a corner, a pile of swords behind him. He frowns, as he watches one wobble in the salesman's hands.  
Facing the center of town from the entrance, a bar is visible to the right. it’s full of commotion as people wind down for the night. Next to the bar sits another building with a similar structure. On the door is a metallic, shield-shaped crest depicting a wraith with a sword through it. Over top, the doorway rests a sign that reads 'The Restful Wolf' and just below it in smaller text, it says 'we welcome all Hunters and those who seek their services.’  
"That's new. Wonder what that symbol means." Openly wonders Richard.  
"That is a Hunters crest. It's used to mark things in relation to a Hunter. In this case, it’s marking that Hunter Tavern. Ones like this are dotted all over the place. It's a building specially equipped to handle the many needs of a Hunter. Rooms, crafter’s tools, small medical facilities, anything a Hunter might need, and since many Hunters spend their downtime there, many people go in seeking their aid." Informs Robin "How'd you never find that out? It's a pretty old tradition."  
Richard pauses to think about his words and responds, "I've lived in Croy as a shopkeep for 30 or so years selling my produce and I never saw one back home. Never seen or heard of anything like that, never had to."  
Robin is left intrigued but brushes away his questions.  
They keep walking until they're next to an unused building. It's small and has a blank sign over the doorway. Richard, who has been walking in front of his horses, leading them through the town for a few minutes, walks up to the door of the unmarked building and takes out a keyring.  
"Well, we've arrived, which means it's time for your reward.” Richard beams, reaching into a small pouch on his belt. “Here you go, that should be plenty," says Richard tossing a sizable coin pouch up to Robin.  
Robin, shocked by the amount, attempts to return the bag while explaining, "This is a hundred and thirty Questums! I can't take this. I didn't do enough to warrant it."  
"Oh nonsense, thirteen Epiciums is exactly your worth. Anyways, it's not what you did, it’s what you'll do. You're a kind person and I'm going to give you what you deserve," finishes Richard as he walks into what Robin presumes is the store he bought.  
Nice to meet a nice person. Pretty rare these days. Robin grins.  
Walking down the street, Robin wonders what to do with the money. He has been living from paycheck to paycheck for a while, and never thought about ever having enough money to actually get by.  
I could do with a bow, or some kind of ranged weapon like a revolve- Robin pauses as his mind leaps elsewhere. He gathers himself and returns to his budgeting. some leather armour would be nice or just a clean set of clothes since mine are covered with blood. Thinks the Hunter as he passes store after store.  
After pacing the young town for a while, Robin decides it's late enough and uses some of the money he got from Richard to get some food, resupply on rations, and buy a room at The Restful Wolf, so he can finally rest.  
As he sits on the bed, Robin pulls a small box out of his bag. Sighing, he whispers "Thank you… old friend… your time came too soon". A lone tear rolls down his cheek.  
The box is wooden, a nice mahogany, with a brass clasp and fittings running along the edge. The box has no round edges and is nearly thirty centimeters in length. After unlatching the box, inside can be seen general tools of creation and repair: a small hammer, a box of assorted screws and nails, a whetstone for sharpening, a cross headed screwdriver, a pair of well-worn steel tongs, a small tattered brush, and a wrench with a heavily rusted handle. Robin sets down the box and removes the whetstone, proceeding to spend the next few hours sharpening his short sword before placing everything where it belongs and falling into a sound and restful sleep.  
The night is restful and quiet, but as morning comes the silence is broken, and in its place, a chorus of screams grows from outside. The townsfolk are running from place to place in a frantic attempt to save as many of their wares as possible, bumping into people. Several drones whizz over to the west to get a better view of the growing mass. A bang rings through the air as someone falls to the ground. Several people are shouting about wraiths and how "Twenty of ‘em are gathering on the ridge." Robin bolts out of bed, sword in hand, and runs out of The Restful Wolf. It’s so early in the morning that the sun has barely come out.  
The streets are full of chaos as people run frantically, the flickering street lights adding to the overall chaos. Several Hunters, identifiable by the swords they carry on their backs, are fleeing the scene out of sheer terror. A civilian, who is watching the gathering of wraiths, hollers out "their size has doubled! Run for your lives!"  
"Cowards, stopping those things is a part of your duty as Hunters! How dare you leave these people to death!" Howls Robin, his hands shaking with rage.  
Robin stomps towards the west edge of the town, a stern look on his face. As he passes by people, he tells them to ‘flee while you still can’.  
He grabs a small wooden shield from another Hunter as they try to leave, stating."I'll need this more than you will," and taking it with a violent twisting pull.  
Now facing the army of wraiths, Robin taunts them, hoping he’ll make enough of a difference.  
Forty to one. Not great odds of survival but I think I can make it.  
Drawing his sword with his right hand and his shield in the other, Robin stares into the shadowy mass, with unwavering focus, waiting to see what will happen next.


End file.
